Anima Sleeps
by liaisonwiththecouch
Summary: --one-shot-- In Guadosalam, the woman gives birth to the dead.


A/N: All written from my imagination

A/N: All written from my imagination. Please read and review.

-- --

Pounding, like war drums, like the feet of marching soldiers, like raindrops against the roof.

The gentle hiss of breath, escaping.

The silent stare of the wronged.

Anima awakens.

-- --

The squalling of a child above the grating breaths of the woman. Her legs are splayed, wide open; like the channel for the origin of the species, some strange new creature emerges as though from the sea. Its eyes are narrow, concentrated; the dark blue shadow over its skull and the nape of its neck remains even after the memory of the woman's body has been wiped with half-hearted care away.

The woman still breaths heavy, with dark droplets of blood staining the rumpled bedsheets clustering around her planted feet; the child is larger than bargained for and she is torn. There is little care for her; the eyes of the midwives, surrounded by dark veins branching down their faces, are focused on the child. Its hands are large, disproportionate; so soon escaped from the womb it grips tightly as it shrieks.

The bells of Guadosalam toll, and the midwives recall their duties. One brings the child towards the woman. She deigns to accept it, to hold it thoughtfully.

As the bells toll into the cold and ice, she smiles like a queen.

-- --

"They hate me."

"Let them hate you. They hate me, too."

"But they won't play with me. They run away from me. They're scared of me."

"They fear me, too. You are too young to garner respect. Take what you have, and use it."

"Mother, I have no one."

"You will never have anyone. You are an amalgamation, a mutant, a monster."

"Mother, why am I a monster?"

"Because you come from an unholy union. Man and Guado were not meant to breed. They created you. They will never love you."

"Do you not love me?"

"You are my son."

"Mother, you love power. Will I have power?"

"You will have all the power you desire."

"Will you love me?"

"Perhaps."

-- --

Young Seymour is ten when his father sends him away to Baaj with his mother. The woman does not react in any discernible manner; she does not stiffen or move. Her eyes do not waver from Jyscal's face. In the corner of her eyes she can see Seymour, thankfully stiff and regal. Seymour is given to fidgeting and volatility in emotion. If he had let a single tear fall from his eyes, she could have beaten him. Instead his face is polite, if blank.

Jyscal leans towards his wife to kiss her cheek; she smiles graciously, and he turns towards Seymour, who has not yet grown into his long limbs. "You will survive," he says, almost a question. "There will not be such cruelty to you there. They will be human; you may not tell them of your Guado ancestry, if you so wish. You do not appear too Guado, and the markings on your face can be explained by illness."

The slightest furrow appears between Seymour's slanted brows; the woman breathed in slowly. Seymour nods, his jaw tight with unconcealed misery, and escapes the room in a stiff march. Jyscal glances at his wife, who bows her head, and exits.

-- --

Her eyes are not angered, or compassionate, merely patient, as she counts. Seymour kneels in the snow, his hands clutching the coarse, gravelly ice in which his head is resting. His eyes are shut; in the harsh winds of Guadosalam he dares not let the snow fly into them like tiny daggers. He turns his face slightly, to turn a harshly abraded area of his forehead away. Gently, lovingly, the woman turns his face back into the ground.

"--one hundred," she finishes. He rocks back onto his heels, burying his forehead in the stiff fabrics of his shirt. His breath is ragged, but he does not cry.

"Mother--"

She kneels by him, gathers him in her arms and lifts him up, slinging him over her shoulder like a carcass, and carries him inside.

"Mother--"

In the temple of Guadosalam, she lays him onto a couch. Like a young child he curls up and huddles into her embrace. The woman rocks him back and forth in her lap as he presses his face into the cold silk that she wears, trying not to cry.

"Seymour," she says, quietly, "in Baaj you must not pretend to be human. In Baaj you will be what you are; a halfbreed in any land. You will not cry. You will live, and you will rise above the world."

Around them the statues of a thousand years stare down at them, accusing and bored and waiting, watching the mother comfort her child.

"Mother!"

-- --

"What do you think of the children here?:

"They are so dark, mother. They look so small, and plain."

"They're human. This heat burns them. I am human, too, and I cannot bear this heat. It makes me ill."

"I have never seen human children before. I have only seen adults, when they came to father's temple. Would they play with me, do you think?"

"You will not play with them."

Silence.

"Yes, mother."

"I want you to enter the temple. Stay there, and learn it: its grounds, the air, the statues. When you are older I would have you become a summoner."

"Why, mother?"

"No one will disregard us when you save the world. You will be a savior."

"And you, mother?"

"I will bring you to salvation."

-- --

The woman stands slowly as Seymour enters the room; she has little strength now, after so much illness. His back is straight and his head is high, but he is stiff with weariness and moves sluggishly.

"Did anyone help you walk out," she asks intently, looking searchingly into his eyes. "Did you stand on your own?"

"Yes," he says, sounding mildly surprised.

"Good." She glances at the staff, heavy and ornate. Like two wings the carvings extend, lifting it into the air as he brings it up for her to see. There is even some nervousness in the woman, once her poise is ignored. Seymour glances at her, and a thoughtful expression comes onto his face; then her face turns to meet his and it is gone. A feral smile touches her lips. "Show me," she says.

Seymour struggles with weariness, walks out of the room into an empty courtyard. She follows him, smiling softly to herself.

When Seymour moves through the gestures of the summoning dance, he is not human, nor Guado. If he is male or female, it is not clear; and the lines of his face blur through his movements. The staff dips and sweeps through the air; Seymour is the Aeon. Then they separate into distinct creatures.

"Good."

-- --

The woman is dying in the land of ghosts, in the memory of a world. She stands like an angel, like a goddess on the decrepit docks that are all that is left of Zanarkand.

"Mother--"

She glances at Seymour, and the light turns her face into something unnatural. "The world is coming to you," she whispers.

"No, mother, no--"

She moves sharply, clutches at his face, and kneels, pulling him down with her, and pushes his face into the water. She let him struggle for a brief moment before he takes control of himself, then tears him away from the edge. Her fingers leave white marks on his face, glistening with sweat and saltwater, when she releases him. He falls back onto his heels and watches her blankly as she stands up.

"Get up."

He stares at her, uncomprehendingly, mouth open as water streams down his face. She kneels down by him, wraps her arms around him, and stands up, pulling him with her, her face buried in his shoulder.

"There is no other way," she whispers into his ear. She kisses his cheek, and pulls away, but the gesture seems awkward, false. "Use me and defeat Sin." A curling smile crosses her face, makes her cunning. "Only then will they accept you."

Seymour stares at her. He is not so young anymore and his eyes darken at the blatant hypocrisy, and her smile says she knows it too. He hates her, for that, and he loves her because he can't help it.

"How can I care about them?" he says, bitter, desperate, because of what she has done for him. "I only need you, Mother. No one else."

She stares at him, her eyes teasing, even. "I don't have much time left," she says, challenging him.

"Mother!"

-- --

The scrape of stiff fabric over stone, the play of light over cold blue walls.

The whisper of ice, growing from the earth, creating a monument from which a creature emerges, born of snow and light and harsh deadly passion.

Before it is a creature, an amalgamation, a monstrosity, waiting for the world to come to it.

"Anima!"

Anima comes forth.

-- end --


End file.
